


The World Could be a lot of Things

by Haydenn11



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale thinks Crowley is dead, Between the Scenes, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, angsty fluff, but please be nice, feed back appreciated, first fic ever, no one is actually dead, this is my first fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:54:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28166559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haydenn11/pseuds/Haydenn11
Summary: Instead of being discorporated, Aziraphale relocates Sargent Shadwell and rushes to find Crowley. He arrives at Crowley's apartment, sees obvious evidence of a demon killed by Holy Water and an empty tartan thermos. Crowley is dead and Aziraphale blames himself.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 46





	The World Could be a lot of Things

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by a headcannon I saw on tumblr. I would credit user that inspired me, but I lost the post and have literally no idea who it was.

Aziraphale looked curiously at the door to his shop, but made no move to investigate the noises he heard. The phone in his hand stopped ringing and he heard Crowley’s voice at the other end. 

“Hi, this is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do, do it with style.”

“Well, I know who you are, you idiot, I telephoned you. Listen, I know where the Antichrist is‒”

Crowley’s voice, the real one, not a recording, interrupted him. “Yeah, It’s not a good time. Got an old friend here.”

CLICK. 

“But‒”

“You foul fiend!” A gravely Scottish voice cried out from the shop entrance. 

Aziraphale dropped the phone immediately and went to investigate. 

“Sargent Shadwell!” he said, shocked to see the wet, angry man invading his shop. 

“You monster!” Shadwell exclaimed. “Seducing women to do your evil will!”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure what the Sargent meant by this, but he had never heard anything so ridiculous. 

“Oh, I think perhaps you’ve got the wrong shop.”

“You are possessed by a demon, and I will exorcise you,” Sargent Shadwell continued as if he hadn’t heard him, “with bell, book, and candle!”

“Yes, er, fine!” Aziraphale though perhaps the Sargent was the one possessed. The man blundered around, and Aziraphale remembered the portal to heaven still open in the middle of the shop. “But please, keep away from the circle. It’s‒ It’s still powered up.”

Sargent Shadwell ignored him. He was looking around the shop, finally spotting the bell next to the cash register.” 

“Bell.” He said, and rang it. 

“I’m honestly not a demon.” Aziraphale tried to reason. “I don’t know what you think you saw, but‒”

Sargent Shadwell picked up  _ The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnus Nutter, Witch _ . “Book!”

“Please, you-you-you must keep away from the circle!” stuttered Aziraphale.

The Sargent lit a silver cigarette lighter. “Practically a candle.” 

“Really Sargent!” Aziraphale snapped, losing his patience at last. “I don’t have time for this.”

Sargent Shadwell continued forward, lighter in hand, muttering words that were obviously supposed to send Aziraphale back to hell. Aziraphale sighed impatiently, snapped his fingers, and Sargent Shadwell disappeared with a small pop. 

Aziraphale grabbed his coat and strode purposefully from the shop. Crowley’s words ringing in his ears. “Not a good time, got an old friend here.” Crowley didn’t have any old friends, except for Aziraphale, which means that the “old friend'' was most likely an agent of Hell finally caught up with him. Aziraphale tried to douse his rising panic as he hailed a taxi and sped away from the bookshop. He didn’t spare a thought for the book of prophecy Shadwell had dropped when he vanished or for the candles he’d left burning around the circle, one of which had fallen over as he left. 

* * *

Crowley rematerialized in his apartment, successfully trapping Hastur in his voicemail. He ran from the apartment amid Hastur’s pleas and threats, carefully avoiding the puddle of slightly smoking goo that used the Ligur, and not bothering to close his front door properly. He needed to find Aziraphale. His angel had said he knew where the antichrist was. There may still be enough time to avert the apocalypse if they hurried. Crowley started the Bentley and sped away towards the bookshop just moments before a black taxi pulled up. 

* * *

Aziraphale threw himself from the taxi, miracling a handful of cash into the driver’s hand. If he had the presence of mind to be observant, he might have noticed that the Bentley wasn’t parked out front where it was supposed to be. He might have even been able to detect the lingering smell of burning rubber. But he didn’t. 

Aziraphale reached the door to Crowley’s apartment. It was ajar. Aziraphale listened for a moment, but heard nothing from inside. He pushed the door open hesitantly. 

“Crowley?” He called tentatively as he walked through the entry way. He took one step into office and his foot landed immediately into a puddle of slightly smoking ooze. Aziraphale's heart fell through his stomach. His breath caught in his chest. He stared in wide-eyed horror at the smoking black puddle and knew at once that it used to be a demon.

“No.” He clasped a hand over his mouth, trying to process what he was seeing. His whole body began to tremor as he scanned the rest of the room for what might have caused the puddle he was desperately trying to convince himself wasn’t Crowley. His eyes finally found the tartan thermos, open and empty, sitting on the desk in the middle of the office. The theromos that he, Aziraphale, had filled with water and blessed himself before giving it to Crowley. 

Shock and panic seeped into his veins like ice. “No. God, please no. Crowley! CROWLEY!” Aziraphale strode through the rest of the apartment, screaming for Crowley all the way through the plant room, the unused kitchen, and the bedroom, his voice becoming more hysterical with every utterance of the demon’s name. 

Finally, he came back into the office, picked up the tartan thermos to confirm that it really was empty. It was. He sank to his knees and forced himself to confront the smoking puddle that used to be Crowley. He rocked back and forth, clutching the thermos to his chest, pathetic, shuddering sobs tearing their way out of him. 

“Gone. Oh my god. You’re really gone.” He looked down at the thermos in his hands. “And it’s my fault. I brought you a suicide pill. I-I killed my best friend.” 

Aziraphale threw himself forward onto the floor, letting the sobs take over his body. Each one rolled through him like a thunderhead bringing with it new levels of grief and guilt the angel had not thought possible. And there, curled on the floor next to the dark stain that was all he had left of his oldest and only friend, Aziraphale uttered, in a strangled sob, his first curse in over 6,000 years. “FUCK!” 

* * *

Crowley pulled up to the bookshop and parked illegally amid the fire trucks. He didn’t even pause to spare a look of horror at the flames pouring from the windows of the shop. He was too filled with a single minded determination. Find Angel. 

“Are you the owner of this establishment?” called a firefighter. 

“Do I look like I run a bookshop?” Crowley snapped before entering the burning building. 

The heat washed over him, not painful, obviously, he was a demon after all, but the raw power of it stunned him. Everything was on fire. All the angel’s carefully collected manuscripts were burning. Crowley felt oddly numb as he tried not to think about how the fire was started. 

“Aziraphale!” He called over the sound of Queen’s “Your My Best Friend,” a record he had given to Aziraphale decades ago, playing on the ancient gramophone as he searched for signs of his angel. “Aziraphale, where the Heaven are you, you idiot! I can’t find you!”

Aziraphale was nowhere to be seen. Surely, he would have been out front. He wouldn’t have stayed in the burning bookshop. Surely he wouldn’t have allowed the fire to spread this far in the first place. He would have stopped it with a miracle. But Aziraphale hadn’t been outside, and now he wasn’t inside. The fire was everywhere and his angel wasn’t anywhere to be found. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley began to panic in earnest, screaming, “for God’s‒ for Satan’s‒” He let out a frustrated shout. “For somebody’s sake, where are you!” The window exploded and a jet of water collided with Crowley, knocking him backwards. 

Crowley sat on the floor and watched the flames eat away at the book shop, burning up all the cozy places where he and his angel like to sit and drink and talk. Destroying all the corners where used to find Aziraphale hidden away with his nose pressed into some book or other. He’d never never find him here again, Crowley realized, there would be no saving the bookshop after this. There would be no saving‒

A thought had been at the peripherals of Crowley’s mind since he saw the burning shop. He had tried not to think it, but he let it seep into his mind now. The shop was on fire. Hell had sent agents to capture Crowley, and now the shop was on  _ fire _ . Hell must have sent agents to Aziraphale as well. They must have figured out Crowley and Aziraphale were… fraternizing. Demons had set this fire, Crowley was sure, and Aziraphale wasn’t here.

“You’ve gone.” The words tore at his throat on their way out. Tears burned in his eyes for the first time since the flood. Crowley gave another desperate glance around the shop, hoping against hope that Aziraphale would miracle himself into existence. But he didn’t. He wouldn’t. The reality crushed Crowley and suddenly hot rage and pain was burning inside of him, clawing its way out. He screamed. “Somebody killed my best friend. BASTARDS! ALL OF YOU!”

* * *

Aziraphale lay on the floor. Hot tears leaked out of eyes and dripped thickly onto the stone floor, forming their own puddle next to the puddle that used to be Crowley. He couldn’t stop thinking about his conversation with Crowley the day before and how they’d left things. 

_ Friends? We’re not friends! I don’t even like you.  _

_ There is no “our” side, Crowley! Not anymore. It’s over.  _

“I’m so sorry, my dear.” Aziraphale sobbed to the puddle. “We should have gone away. We could have been halfway to Alpha Centauri by now.”

He looked down at the tartan thermos and felt sick rising in his throat. He never should have given it to Crowley. He had agonized over it for months, years really. He hated the idea of giving Crowley “insurance” as he’d called it. It made him imagine a world without Crowley in it and he couldn’t stomach the thought of a world without Cowley in it.

The tartan thermos was his one grand gesture in six thousand years. His one attempt to give voice to this unspoken feeling between them and he hadn’t even been able to express himself properly. His gesture, far from bringing them closer, had put distance between them. Aziraphale had gotten cold feet at the last moment and told the demon he went too fast when he’d been nothing but kind and patient for six thousand years. And now, the infernal thermos had killed Crowley before Aziraphale could pluck of the courage to finally choose him, to finally love him.

“I should have just said it.” Aziraphale told the puddle. “I should have just told you plainly how I felt that night in the Bentley. I should have done it a million times over before and since. Heaven and Hell be damned. I should have gone faster.”

Aziraphale knew that he should move. He should get up. He should still be trying to save the world, but he did not see the point of saving it anymore. He stared at the puddle of Crowley, at the slow sulfuric wisps rising gently from it. His world had already ended. If Earth was to burn, he’d be quite happy now, to burn with it. 

* * *

Crowley swaggered into the bar looking like hell itself. He ordered an entire bottle of single malt scotch and threw himself into the first empty table he came to. 

Aziraphale was dead, the world was about to end and he had no idea where to find the antichrist to stop it. Not that he saw much point in stopping it now that Angel was gone. He had told Azriaphale that he’d wanted to save all the earthly pleasures he enjoyed, sleeping and wine and old cars, but really, the reason he wanted to save Earth was because it was the only place he and Aziraphale could exist together. If the world ended, no matter who won, he would never see his angel again. But, as that appeared to be the case anyway, all there was left for Crowley to do was to spend the remaining few hours of Earth’s existence consuming quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol.

He tried not to think about Aziraphale as he drank, but he, with all his imagination, could not pretend Aziraphale did not permeate his thoughts, his every molecule. The pain of losing his angel was worse than anything Crowley had experienced or imagined. It surged through him burning worse than holy water ever could. Crowley bit his fist to keep from screaming.

_ When I’m off in the stars, I won’t even think about you. _

Why in Heaven had he said that? Aziraphale was all he could ever think about. He was every dream Crowley had ever had, it was the reason he liked sleeping so much. In sleep, he created entire worlds for himself and shared them with Angel. Perfect worlds where they could stop pretending and just be. He needed those dreams, those thoughts, like humans needed air. Aziraphale was the only thought he had, the only one worth thinking. 

“I should have said that. I should have said that every day since Eden.”

Crowley sighed and filled his glass again. The world would burn before the day was over, so Crowley needed to hurry up and make himself flammable. 

* * *

Aziraphale was still on the floor. The puddle of Crowley had stopped smoking, but Aziraphale had not stopped crying. 

The message light was blinking. The thunder clouds over London had caused the room to grow quite dark. The faint, pulsing glow on the ceiling had caught Aziraphale’s attention, but it had taken him some time to realize the light was from the answering machine. 

_ Hi, this is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do, do it with style _ .

Aziraphale was possessed with a sudden urge to listen to the answering machine’s greeting, just to hear Crowley’s voice again. He got up swiftly and snatched up the receiver to the phone on the desk and dialed it’s number. 

“Hello?” said a smokey, gravely voice through the phone. 

“Hello?” replied Aziraphale, startled. “Sorry, wrong number.”

“Oh no, it's the right number. Thank you so much for calling.”

“I’m sorry I don’t‒” Aziraphale began, but then he looked down and saw a maggot squirming out of the speaker on the answering machine. Another maggot appeared, and more followed until the answering machine broke and a sea of maggots flooded the office before converging into a single being, an ashen skinned, straw-haired demon with black eyes.

“Who are you?” Aziraphale demanded. 

“Hastur, Duke of Hell.” Hastur, Duke of Hell smiled. “You must be Aziraphale. I’ve been listening to your message. Where is the antichrist?”

“I won’t tell you.” 

Hastur”s eyes flickered to the dark stain. “Your boyfriend is a dead man. Telling me won’t change that, but it might keep the same thing from happening to you, though.”

The jab about Crowley flipped a switch. Aziraphale was consumed with rage, an icy, calculating rage that settled in the set of his jaw and a deadened look in his eye. He squared his shoulders. 

“So, you want to do this the hard way?” Hastur smiled mirthlessly. 

“Oh,” the word came out a deadly whisper. “I very much do.”

Hastur raised his arm, but before he could do anything, Aziaphale unfurled his wings and let righteous anger swell inside of him. The light radiating from Aziraphale made the demon stagger backwards and cover his eyes. Aziraphale focused his energy and anger on Hastur and willed him out of existence. 

It was over in an instant. The power of Aziraphale’s smite vaporized the demon’s body and left a pile of ash on the floor. The smell of sulfur lingered and made Aziraphale’s nose wrinkle. A smite was not powerful enough to truly kill a demon, especially a Duke of Hell, but he would be discorporated and hopefully be forced to fill out a tremendous amount of paperwork. It wasn’t justice for Crowley’s death, but Aziraphale took a savage kind of pleasure in it. 

Vengeance was foreign to him, but it felt right. Aziraphale thought about following Hastur to hell and smiting him again and again. The savage feeling in his chest rose. How much pleasure would it bring him to smite every demon in hell until the whole place was an ashtray? So much… and not enough. Aziraphale let the bloodlust die. It would not bring Crowley back to him. It would not lessen the pain in his chest. 

The answering machine was destroyed. Aziraphale inspected it with regret. He had so wanted to hear Crowley’s voice again, to have some small part of him back, to listen to it over and over until the world ended, but now the stupid machine was broken. Unless‒ unless he called Crowley’s mobile. The mobile phone had its own answering machine. Aziraphale had noticed the subtle differences in the greetings. Aziraphale seized the receiver of the phone on the desk and dialed Crowley’s mobile, fervently hoping it hadn’t disintegrated with him. 

The phone rang once, twice, and then…

* * *

Crowley picked up his phone and was momentarily puzzled when he saw it was himself calling. Then he realized who it must be.

“Hassssstuur!” he slurred. “Enjoy your time in voicemail?” 

He heard a clatter at the other end of the call, like someone had dropped the phone. 

“Hello? Hellooo?” Crowley began to wonder if he had imagined the phone ringing. He looked at the screen. He was definitely on a call with someone. He looked at the glass in his hand and the empty bottle next to him. How drunk was he? He tried once more, “Hello?”

“Sorry. Hello. Crowley?”

The glass slipped from Crowley’s hand and shattered on the floor. “Aziraphale.”

* * *

“Crowley!” Aziraphale choked on the name. “Is that you?”

Silence. 

“Crowley?” 

Nothing. His heart began to leaden. It wasn’t real. He had imagined it. Or this was one of Crowley’s joke voicemail greetings. Aziraphale remembered a rash of those about 30 years previous that drove him near madness. He choked out a sob, lowering the phone slightly.

“I’m here, angel.”

* * *

“Are‒ are you here?” Crowley slurred. 

“I’m in your apartment.” Angel was crying. Crowley dimly acknowledged he should feel concerned about this, but it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard because it meant Angel was really there. “Where are you? Did you go to Alpha Centauri?”

“Nah. Stuff happened. I lost my best friend.” 

“So sorry to hear it.”

“S’alright.” Crowley replied thickley. Then said to himself, quietly, like a prayer, “You’re alive. God in heaven. You’re alive.” 

Crowley’s throat burned as he said it and he could not tell if it was the blasphemy or the tears. 

* * *

“Crowley.” Aziraphale sobbed. “I was so scared. I thought. I thought you were dead.”

Aziraphale heard Crowley’s whispered response. “Alive.”

Azaraphle gave a watery chuckle. “I know, my dear.”

An unsaid  _ for now _ hovered like the storm clouds over London. Crowley was alive, but that condition was temporary at best. The world was still scheduled to end in a few short hours. What was the point of finding out Crowley was alive if the world was ending? 

“Crowley, I need you to go by the book shop. There’s a book, I need.”

“Oh.” Crowley faltered. “The bookshop isn’t there anymore.”

“Oh?”

“I’m really sorry, it burned down.” 

“Oh.” Aziraphale didn’t know how to process that. It was inconceivable. 

“What‒ What was the book?”

“The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of‒”

“AGNUS NUTTER! YES!” Crowley shouted, startling Aziraphale and nearly causing him to drop the phone again. “I’ve got it! Souvenir!” 

“Look inside, I made notes. It’s all in there. I worked it out.”

“Brilliant.” Aziraphale hears Crowley shuffling through pages as he said it. “Look, wherever you are, I can come to you. Where are you, again?”

“No time. I’ll meet you there. You’ve got to get to Tadfield Airbase.”

“Why?”

Azirphale sighed, exasperated. “World ending. That’s where it’s all going to happen. Quite soon now. So I’ll meet you in Tadfield. We’re both going to have to get a bit of a wiggle on.”

“What?”

“Tadfield. Airbase.” 

“I heard that. It was the wiggle‒” Aziraphale didn’t wait for Crowley to finish his thought. He hoped the demon would forgive his rudeness, but there really wasn’t time to prolong the conversation. 

* * *

By the end of the day, a great many things had taken place. Aziraphale had ran out of Crowley’s apartment and  _ suggested  _ to the first person he met— a middle aged, red-haired woman who had been flustered by his urgency and offered him first a tarot card reading and then “intimate personal relaxation for the discerning gentleman,” —that she give him a ride to Tadfield Airbase on her decrepit motor scooter. Aziraphale had had to miracle the thing into flying them there to arrive before it was to late. 

Crowley had arrived dramatically, in typical Crowley fashion, slightly late and in a burning Bentley. Aziraphale had been elated to see him, but the gravity of the situation had not permitted him to revel in their reunion. 

They had rushed into the airbase in time to see children thwarting the four horsemen of the apocalypse. They had confronted Gabriel and Beelzebub and shocked both by suggesting that the Great Plan and the Ineffable Plan were not one in the same. Crowley had managed to pull them out of time to give them a chance to convince Adam he could save the world. And before they knew it the apocalypse simply wasn’t and had never been. 

Now they were on a bus destined for Oxford, but driving to London in spite of that. 

They were sitting side by side. Aziraphale’s body thrummed at the closeness, at the prospect of returning to Crowley’s apartment with Crowley, at the possibility of “our side.” If Crowley was similarly affected he didn’t show it. He slumped in his seat, resting his head against the window with eyes closed behind his dark glasses. He looked ready to sleep for a decade right there in the bus. 

Aziraphale mulled over the prophecy he’d extracted from Agnus Nutter’s book. The witch had said he would be playing with fire and would need to choose his face wisely. He was puzzled by the implication of that. It hinted at something he had not thought possible. Could he and Crolwey switch places?

_ Thump.  _

Aziraphale’s train of thought was quite derailed by Crowley’s slight adjustment and the soft sound of his hand sliding from his lap to the seat next to him where it lay palm up. Quite suddenly, all the hopeless longing Aziraphale had felt for the last six thousand years, all the pain he’d faced when he thought Crowley was dead, all the joy he’d experienced seeing him swagger out of his ruined car swelled up inside him. He stared at Crowley’s hand and fought back the desire to seize it, to entwine their fingers, to kiss the back of it. The hand remained where it was, oblivious to Aziraphale’s internal struggle. Palm up. Inviting. Almost… tempting? 

Aziraphale clasped both his hands firmly in his lap and glared at the hand. Wicked, provocative thing. The hand remained. The fingers twitched slightly, as if with indignation. Aziraphale ran through his usual list of reasons not to act on Crowley induced impulses. Heaven would be furious. He might fall. Hell would be furious. They might destroy Crowley. They were hereditary enemies! They were on opp‒ our side. Crowley had said they were on their own side now. Heaven was already furious. He might already be falling. Hell was assuredly furious. They were probably planning to destroy them both even now. Far from enemies, Crowley was his best friend, his oldest friend, his more-than-friend. All the silly reasons he had been clinging to for millennia popped one by one like soap bubbles. 

Tentatively, Aziraphale rested his hand on the seat next to Crowley’s, close enough to feel his warmth. Surely, if they were on their own side, they could have their hands  _ next  _ to each other. That would be fine. Ever so slowly, Aziraphale inched his hand closer to Crowley’s until their little fingers were just barely touching. He scarcely had time to marvel at the electricity of it when he felt Crowley’s hand twitch and began to panic. What if the tangled knot of feelings he had for Crowley were entirely one sided? He had suspected they weren’t but he didn’t actually know. What if he had misread the “our side” comment? What if Crowley woke up and thought Aziraphale was being entirely too forward? What if‒ Before his thoughts could spiral further out of control, Crowley flipped his hand over and snaked his little finger around Aziraphale’s, holding it firmly. Aziraphale started wide-eyed at their entwined pinkies. He had seen human children make a similar gesture and call it a promise. Aziraphale hadn’t understood why, but now with his finger wrapped around Crowley’s, it felt like one. 

* * *

On the other side of the seat, unseen by Aziraphale, his head still against the window, eyes firmly closed and feigning sleep, Crowley gently squeezed Aziraphale’s pinky with his own and smiled. 

They stayed like that until the bus reached London. Crowley didn’t move the entire time, afraid of ruining the moment. When the bus finally stopped and Aziraphale stood up, he bit his lip to keep from groaning at the loss of contact. 

He miracled the door to his apartment open and walked through the entryway and into his office gingerly stepping over the congealed puddle that used to be Ligur. He snapped, the lights came on and Crowley noticed several things at one. The first was the giant pile of ash in the middle of his office. The second was his answering machine which was nearly snapped into. The third was the tartan thermos on the floor next to the puddle of Ligur, not where he left it. The fourth was that Aziraphale had not followed him inside. 

He poked his head back into the hall. “Angel?”

Aziraphale was in the entryway, leaning against the wall with his hand clutched to his chest and a stricken expression. He chest heaved slowly, intentionally with breath he did not need as if he were staving off a panic attack. 

“Angel!” Crowley came back into the hall and fought back the impulse to rush to Aziraphale and hold him. 

“I’m alright.” Aziraphale said with a tremulous voice. “I just need a moment. 

Crowley’s eyebrows peaked over his sunglasses at Aziraphale, unconvinced. 

“I am. It’s just that when I was here earlier, I thought that,” he pointed at Ligur, “was you and I’m not entirely convinced I haven’t hallucinated everything since. For all I know, I could still be sobbing on the floor. Or perhaps the world’s ended by now and this is what death feels like.”

Crowley looked back at what was left of Ligur and recalled something Aziaphale had said on the phone. _ I was so scared. I thought you were dead.  _ He had been so drunk and so relieved that Aziraphale wasn’t dead that he hadn’t actually registered what his angel had said. Angel had come here, saw a dead demon, assumed it was him and cried? Sobbed on the floor? For how long? At least as long as Crowley had been drinking and that had been hours. He stared in shock at Aziraphale trying not to feel too warm and fuzzy at the depth of emotion his angel had on his behalf. 

Another thought came to him and, desperate to lighten the mood, a wicked smile crossed his lips. “Come on, angel, do you mean to tell me that you spent the better part of the afternoon in my apartment, weeping over a soggy pile of Ligur?

“It’s not funny.” Aziraphale said defensively, and Crowley instantly regretted his comment. “I thought it was you. I came in, saw the remains and I thought you were dead. Properly, permanently dead. Then I saw that infernal thermos and I thought that you had‒ I thought that  _ I _ had‒”

Aziraphale stopped, squeezed his eyes tightly shut, and shook his head as if the thought was too painful to contemplate a second time. Hot shame swept through Crowley as he understood fully. Angel hadn’t just thought he was dead. Angel had thought he killed himself and had felt responsible for it. 

“Oh, angel.” Crowley closed the distance between them. He reached for Aziraphale and hesitated, not wanting to be too forward. Too fast. He decided in an instant to throw caution to the wind. He couldn’t bear his angel looking so broken. He gently cupped Aziraphale’s face and pressed their foreheads together. “Angel, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I’m here. I’m fine, see? I’m right here.” 

Aziraphale, eyes still tightly shut, moved his hands to rest over Crowley’s. Crowley thought for a moment that Aziraphle was going to pull his hands away and put distance between them again, but he didn’t. He held Crowley’s hands in place, took a deep, shuddering breath, and nodded slightly. 

Crowley ran his thumbs over Aziraphale’s soft cheeks, relishing the closeness. “Your thermos saved my life. Hastur and Ligur were coming for me and I rigged the door. Only got Ligur, though, Hastur was too far back. But it was enough. I was able to trap Hastur in my answering machine after.”

Aziraphale gave another little nod and trailed his hands down Crowley’s arms, sofly landing them on his hips and pulling him closer. One of Aziraphale’s legs was between his own and their inner thighs were touching gently. Crowley did his best to ignore the lightning bolt that shot through him. 

“Your thermos saved me.” He whispered again, moving his hands to tangle in the golden curls at the base of Aziraphale’s neck and pulling his head back slightly to get a better look at his face. “I don’t think I ever thanked you properly for it. It meant so much that you gave it to me.”

Aziraphale nodded again, slightly pained expression still on his face, and bit his lower lip. Crowley felt his breath hitch. He stared at the lip pinched between Angel’s teeth and thought about licking it. He thought about gently pulling that lip away from its owner and taking possession of it. Six thousand years and this was the closest they had ever been, the longest and most intimate physical contact they’d ever shared. Crowley should not ruin this moment with a kiss. That would be a bad idea. A kiss would be inappropriate. A kiss would be too fast, something Crowley had desperately tried not to be after Aziraphale had given him the holy water. A kiss was out of the question. 

Crowley was resolved, no kisses, right up until Aziraphale sucked gently on his lip, rolling it between his teeth to bite the other side of it, a little harder than before. Crowley let out an almost silent whine and leaned toward Aziraphale’s lips by a fraction of an inch. He was about to close the distance completely when Aziraphale’s blue eyes flew open. Crowley froze. 

“I almost forgot. I took care of Hastur.”

Crowley retreated slightly and tried not to look disappointed. “Took care of him?”

“I smote him. Rather forcefully. He discorporated.”

“Angel.” Crowley couldn’t keep the awe out of his voice. “Hastur is a Duke of Hell.”

Aziraphale nodded. 

“He’s not the kind of demon you can just smite.”

“I think you’ll find there's a pile of ash on your floor that says otherwise.”

Crowley couldn’t argue with that. He’d seen the ashes. “You would have needed to channel so much power to disintegrate him like that.”

“He said you were a dead man. I realize now he was being metaphorical but at the time I thought it was true and I‒ I got very angry and I smote him.” 

“Angel.” Crowley whispered, touched. He couldn’t think of anything else to say. 

Aziraphale took a deep breath, steeling himself. He pulled Crowley’s hips a tiny bit closer, curling fingers into his belt loops. “I would have followed him to Hell and brought the whole place down around his ears if I thought it would have brought you back to me.”

“Angel.” Crowley really needed to think of something else to say, but Aziraphale's declaration and the hands still holding his hips had rather limited his vocabulary. 

“I’m very... fond of you, Crowley.” Aziraphale whispered, looking up at him through thick eyelashes. 

“Ngk” There went the rest of his vocabulary.

“Are you,” Azeriaphale sounded tentative and a little afraid, “fond of me?”

Crowley tried to say yes. He should say yes. Yes, was the correct answer to this question. But he couldn’t do it. As soon as Aziraphale asked, Crowley’s vocabulary came rushing back to him and of all the words he would have used to describe how he felt about Aziraphale,  _ fond  _ didn’t even begin to cover it. He’d waited six thousand years for the opportunity to say how he felt. He wasn’t going to sell himself short with  _ fond _ . Angel deserved poetry. Angel deserved music and Shakespere and skywriting. Although maybe not all at once. 

“No.” he said at last. “I’m not  _ fond  _ of you.”

Crowley paused to gather his thoughts and realized too late that it was a mistake. Aziraphale took his pause to mean he was done speaking. Took the distaste with which he’d said  _ fond  _ to mean a distaste for Aziraphale, and not the word itself. His face crumpled. He looked horrified. Mortified. He immediately released his hold on Crowley's hips and tried to step back but met the wall behind him instead. He let out an appalled “Oh, God!” and looked as if he might discorporate on spot. 

“Oh, fuck, no! Angel, I didn’t mean‒” Crowley tried to collect himself and find the poetry he’d meant to say.

“No, It’s quite alright.” Aziraphale blustered. “I apologize. I have  _ clearly  _ misread this situation. I should go.”

“No!” He seized Aziraphale’s lapel in a panic, all thoughts of poetry abandoned and blurted, “I’m in love with you!”

Aziraphale barely had time to blink before Crowley pushed him against the wall and crushed their lips together. It wasn't the slow, sensual, suggestive kiss he had been thinking of a moment ago. This was a panicked, frenzied, and desperate attempt for Crowley to say with his body all the things he could not find words for. He felt Angel go still beneath him, frozen, stunned, and his heart broke a little. He’d ruined it. Aziaphale had said  _ fond  _ and Crowley had sped right past that exit and veered into the oncoming traffic that was “I’m in love with you.” He had gone too fast. Of course he would not be well received. Some part of him had known that. 

Crowley ended the kiss, but didn’t retreat fully right away. He clung to Aziraphale’s jacket, face hovering inches from the angel’s, trying not to quiver with terrible, overwhelming want, unwilling to end this moment. As imperfect as it was, it was something he never thought he’d have. The moment he let go of Aziraphale’s lapel he would have to apologize for taking liberties and begin packing up all the emotional baggage he just dropped and rearrange it in his neatly compartmentalized mind. He didn’t want to let go, but he could not intrude on Angel’s personal space any longer. With a small disappointed sigh he let his hands fall and began to step back. Aziraphale’s hands shot up, wound in his hair and pulled him back in. 

* * *

“I’m in love with you!”

_ Oh.  _

All the crushing embarrassment Aziraphale had felt seconds before melted away. Replaced by a happy warmth spreading down to his toes. Then Crowley’s mouth was on him. 

_ Oh.  _

_ Oh.  _

Aziraphale had been testing the waters with “I’m very fond of you.” He hadn’t worked out if he should fully explain his feelings for Crowley, and certainly hadn’t worked out how he might do that. Then Crowley had come out of nowhere with “I’m in love with you” and the feel of soft lips on his and it was perfect. Also very shocking. Aziraphale froze, trying to process.

Crowley’s lips moved urgently against his. He should do something. React. Respond. How? Aziraphale’s brain was currently frolicking through meadows, triumphantly declaring “He loves me!” to every petal on every imaginary flower. Which was fine, but not at all helpful to the current situation, in which Aziraphale desperately needed his brain to tell his body to do something before‒

Crowley stopped kissing him. He stayed very close, however, and very still. Aziraphale could feel waves of love rolling off of him, but beneath it there was a tension, as if ending the kiss had taken tremendous effort. Aziraphale opened his eyes and chanced a glance at Crowley. The disappointment there was clear, even with his sunglasses on. His brain stopped folicking and finally realized something was wrong. Crowley gave a little sigh and dropped his hands. 

_ NO! _

His brain launched into overdrive and faster than Aziraphale thought possible, his hands were in Crowley’s hair, pulling him urgently back down to meet his mouth. This time there was something electric between them. Their mouths parted, the kiss deepened. Aziraphale swirled his tongue around Crowley’s and Crolwey groaned into his mouth. Aziraphale tightened his grip on Crowley’s hair and pulled him closer. He slid his hands down Crowley’s neck, down his chest, down to his hips were his fingers curled in belt loops once more. Crowley bit his lip, gently raking teeth across sensitive flesh. 

After a few moments, months, perhaps several centuries. They broke apart. Crowley smiled and ran his thumb across Aziraphale’s slightly swollen bottom lip. 

“I love you, too.”Azriaphale said. Crowley smiled wider. “I’m sorry I didn’t say so sooner.”

Crowley beamed. “S’alright.”

“Look.” Aziraphale snapped. “The office is clean now. No Ligur. No Hastur. We can put that whole business behind us. Let’s go inside. Pour some wine and… I don’t know.”

“I’ve got some ideas.” Crowley slipped off his sunglasses to look suggestively at Aziraphale. Then leaned in and planted a kiss on his neck, pressing his hips closer as he did. Aziraphale could feel the Effort Crowley was making. 

He blushed. “Oh. My dear, it’s not that I don’t want to.”

Crowley pressed another kiss to his neck, moving downward from the first. 

“It’s just that, I want to try it more than once.”

“Oh, I intend to.” Crowley murmured. 

“On a night when we aren’t fearing for our lives.”

Crowley withdrew reluctantly from his exploratory mission of Aziraphale’s neck to look the angel in the eyes. “I don’t know if we’ll get any more of those.”

“We will. We have to. There’s a prophecy, remember. We just have to figure it out.”

Crowley stared at him, yellow eyes practically glowing with barely contained want. 

“Please, Crowley. When we fall into bed together, I want it to be because we want it, and not because we might die tomorrow.”

There was a long pause. The heat behind Crowley’s stare seemed to cool a little until he finally said, “Of course, angel.”

* * *

Two hours and two bottles of wine later, they had finally worked out a satisfactory plan for the following day. They would swap bodies. It seemed to be what the prophecy was hinting at. As much as Crowley despised the idea of putting Aziraphale in danger, he recognized that the danger would be much greater if they didn’t swap. 

Aziraphale seemed content to stay in the office planning all night, but Crowley was tired in ways he had never experienced before. At long last he couldn’t stand it anymore. 

“I’m going to bed.” He announced. “Will you come with me?”

Aziraphale blushed. Crowley loved it. “Oh, my dear. I did rather mean what I said.”

“I know. I wasn’t talking about that. We don’t have to do anything. Not until you want to. It’s just. I’m very tired, and I just thought we could‒ That I could‒”

“Could what?”

Crowley swallowed hard and tried to look anywhere but at Aziraphale. He’d left his glasses off and was regretting it now. He longed for something to hide behind. 

“Hold you.” He said at last, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice and failing spectacularly. “Obviously, we don’t have to. I just am so tired, but I want you with me. I need to know you’re real.”

Aziraphale didn’t say anything. Instead he stood and motioned for Crowley to lead the way into the bedroom. Once inside, Crowley snapped and his clothes were replaced with black, silk pajamas. Crowley didn’t normally go for pajamas, but thought Angel might run for the hills if he put on his usual nighttime attire, or lack thereof. 

Aziraphale inspected him with inquisitive eyes. Then he snapped as well, replacing his clothes with a pair of pajamas identical to Crowley’s, except in cream and gold tartan. 

“I don’t normally sleep.” Aziraphale admitted. “It’s been centuries. I’m afraid I’ve rather forgotten how.” 

“It’s easy. Lie down. Close your eyes. Drift off, or don’t. Either way it’s nice to just rest sometimes.”

After an awkward pause, they both slipped underneath the covers of Crowley’s huge, plushy bed. They laid awkwardly, a couple feet apart, watching each other with apprehension. 

“Can I?” Crowley asked, indicating moving closer. 

Aziraphle nodded. 

Crowley closed the distance, curling into Aziraphale’s warm softness. His head rested on the angel’s shoulder, an arm draped across his torso and Crowley entwined both his legs around one of Aziraphale’s. 

They settled into each other. Aziraphale ran his fingertips lightly over Crowley’s arm, and Crowley snuggled further into Aziraphale’s chest. Crowley was almost asleep when Aziraphale broke the silence. 

“You smell smoky.” He murmured, as if only semiconscious. “More than usual.”

“Yeah. That’ll be the shop.” Crowley closed his eyes and tried not to imagine the flames devouring the bookshop. 

“You were in the shop?”

“How else would I know it burned down.”

“I assumed you saw if from the outside. I didn’t realize you went in.” Aziraphale’s voice sounded more alert now, and vaguely incredulous. 

“Yeah, well,” Crowey paused for a moment, and when he spoke again his voice was barely a whisper. “couldn’t find you.”

“You ran into a burning building to look for me?” 

“You weren’t out front. It’s not like fire’s that big of a deal for a demon.”

“Even still.”

“I thought it was hellfire.” Crowley whispered it into Aziraphale's chest, reluctant to relive the worst moments of his life. 

“Oh.”

“Hastur and Ligur showed up here, and I thought they sent people to you too. I thought you were‒” Crowley stopped as emotion threatened to overcome him. He pressed his face into Aziraphale and inhaled, confirming that the angel was, in fact, present and accounted for. 

“You thought I was dead.” Aziraphale finished his thought.

Crowley nodded. 

Aziraphale pulled Crowley in a little close and planted a soft kiss to the top of his head. He said, “I’m here. We’re both here, and we’re going to stay here together.”

Crowley wasn’t sure at what point the companionable silence turned into sleep, but he knew he woke feeling more rested than he ever had in the entirety of his long life. 

* * *

They woke the next morning. They put on each other’s bodies and headed out to face each other’s fates. Heaven and Hell were both confounded by, but none the wise to their deception. At last, they were free of their respective head offices, free to do what they pleased, free to just be. 

Aziraphale thoroughly enjoyed the meal they shared at the Ritz. But nothing could compare to the moment Crowley toasted him.  _ To the world _ was what he had said, and  _ To the world _ was what Aziraphale dutifully replied. But, underneath the quaint little toast was a depth of emotion and words unspoken. 

_ To the world _ meant to you. To us. To freedom. To new courage, and an old friend. To love. To today. And to all the tomorrows we will spend together.  _ To the world _ meant even though the world had technically ended, Aziraphale, leaning toward Crowley to take his hand, felt alive for the first time. 


End file.
